


Tremors

by RarePairFairy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, comfort hugs, snuggles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-06
Updated: 2013-08-06
Packaged: 2017-12-22 14:43:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/914420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RarePairFairy/pseuds/RarePairFairy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set post-"The Three Garridebs" or, the story where Watson got shot and Holmes panicked.</p><p> </p><p>John is fine. Really.</p><p>Sherlock is not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tremors

John had been lying on his side and trying to get to sleep for an hour when he heard his door open.

He did not jump up or flinch, despite having been shot earlier than evening.

It was nearly midnight now, and Evans was in custody. John’s mind played over and over that scene, that unexpectedly tender flash; Sherlock, childlike in his horror at John’s injury, at his own inability to prevent it. His statement to the American, so chillingly firm and clear:

“Had you killed John, you would not have gotten out of this room alive.”

Up until that split second John had assumed that Sherlock would be able to judge the trajectory or the angle of a shot in a way that meant he’d know at the moment of the shot whether a person was fatally wounded. And maybe he did. But the sight of John getting shot was apparently enough to bring that mechanical mind screeching to a dead halt, and turn him into a vulnerable and emotional human being, even if just for a moment. Fancy that.

Having been fired upon before, and long ago resigned to that continuing, John felt that between the two of them, he had gotten less of a shock when he finally got shot again. He had relaxed as soon as they got to the hospital and was perfectly fine by the time they got home, while Sherlock spent the whole time jittery and snappish and, if John didn’t know better, he’d say possessive. Lestrade, the other policemen, even nurses had barely been able to get near John to speak to and treat him.

And now, his bedroom door was opening, and John was of half a mind to tell Sherlock to sod off and leave him alone. He almost did, when he felt the corner of the bed dip.

Then the dip broadened, the blankets shifted on top of him, and the weight of a long arm weighed down on his waist. A finely boned hand curled loosely around his wrist. John pulled his scrambled mind together and wondered what to do as Sherlock huddled up against his back.

‘Sherlock …’ he mumbled, trying to extract his wrist from Sherlock’s tightening grip as he tried to figure out what was going on. ‘ _Sherlock_.’

He tried to wriggling free, but the arm around his waist became steely and unyielding. He was about to kick whatever part of Sherlock he could reach when he felt it.

Shivers, running all throughout Sherlock’s body.

His mind quickly ran through the possibilities. High? Withdrawals? No, he hadn’t seen Sherlock take anything within the past few months and he knew the signs. Sherlock wasn’t clammy or overheating. Sick? Sherlock was never sick, and during the day and early afternoon he’d been fine. Anger? Sherlock wasn’t wrestling him, he was just holding him.

Holding him. Sherlock was pressed up against his back, shivering violently, and holding him.

‘Sherlock,’ John sighed defeatedly. He wasn’t trained to deal with this. Well, he _was_ , but not on a Holmes. Sherlock didn’t suffer from terror or weakness. He got frustrated and angry and nasty, but he couldn’t process emotional stress. He didn’t seem to have the faculties for it. Until now.

John thought of the drugged cup of coffee during the Baskerville case. He thought of the awkward apology the morning after Sherlock’s outburst. He glanced over his shoulder. Sherlock’s eyes were half open, but he was staring sullenly at the far side of the room with his cheek pressed into the back of John’s shoulder. His arm was still holding tight to John’s front, as if fearing that he would try to struggle free again.

John wondered if Sherlock had ever done this before. He wondered if, following a nightmare or a particularly mortifying day at school, Sherlock had snuck into Mycroft’s room or his mother’s room and demanded a cuddle. He wondered if Sherlock _hadn’t_ done this before, and at the magnitude of meaning that came with that thought. Either way, John had stayed through the night by the side of traumatized soldiers in tents, on stretchers, held the hands of strangers as they hovered on the edge of death. He had done more for people he knew less.

He had done more for people he _loved_ less. But Sherlock didn’t necessarily have to know that.

He settled down and relaxed his muscles, allowed Sherlock to feel him relax, and waited for Sherlock’s shivering to subside and for the puffs of breath against the back of his neck to slow. Somewhere around one in the morning, John felt the trembling stop. The hand around his wrist stroked upward tentatively, haltingly, and then all five fingertips were resting against the back of his hand. He let it happen, let Sherlock’s face nuzzle between his neck and the pillow, let Sherlock stay on the bed and be unreservedly needy. One night couldn’t hurt.

Two nights probably wouldn’t hurt either.


End file.
